I am for the most part built of my mistakes,

my injuries left scars 

skin concealed the bruises and they remain,

in the end of everything will i still be the same

heavily medicated thoughts properly separated to allow me to make it through the day.

And if I ever find heaven after living through hell

I figure this belly filled with anger might alleviate itself

because the walls have creaked and wretched in place with the twisting of my innards

I am ashamed so ashamed to be alive.

I wish that tabacco came with fortunes that wished you good health

so while I'm sucking on the poison I can feel good about myself.

And though I've cried inside and bled tears for my cigarette to ash in.

I still create body of work which is all I'm worth here and after.

Because when I die a gallery will find all of my faults.

In the heavy strokes and lack of energy that were referred to as triumphs.

The paintings of symmetry that hid the chaos with blacks.

Will cost twice what I would have ever got it's happy thought if it had.

but in the meantime I'll just keeping rolling this thought through my head.